I looked around the neighborhood and its display of sheer wealth. The scrubbed sidewalks and neatly trimmed parkway grass might as well have been on another planet compared to the vacant lots, dilapidated houses, and crumbling streets of Englewood. To think that two places, so far apart in so many ways, could suddenly come clashing together like this for all the wrong reasons.
I didn’t know how long I would have to wait, so I came prepared with my playlist and a series of golf video tutorials I had downloaded to my phone.
I was in the middle of Bruno Mars singing about twenty-four-karat magic in the air when the Morgan gate elegantly rolled open. A sporty silver 3 Series BMW stuck its nose cautiously out of the driveway before turning south toward Forty-Ninth Street. The brake calipers had been painted a deep burgundy to match the color of the convertible top. It was the same car Mechanic had photographed when they’d left their lunch at Chez Gautier.
Hunter Morgan wore a thick cotton sweatshirt and a black baseball cap. I fell in behind her, moving slowly through the neighborhood. After a quick five-minute drive through the center of the University of Chicago, she pulled into a parking spot on Fifty-Seventh Street just in front of a small row of storefronts that sat comfortably across from an elementary school and large park. The traffic was much heavier in this part of Hyde Park, with school buses cramming the narrow roads and students cycling to class. Caravans of strollers clogged the tight sidewalks.
Hunter walked into a place called Medici Bakery. I ducked into a spot across the street and killed the engine. I could see her through the bakery’s large windows. I waited until she had paid for her order before I entered.
Just as she was turning from the cashier, I pulled up next to her. She jumped back and fumbled with the brown bag in her hand. I smiled softly and invited her to take a seat at one of the high-top tables. Business in the tiny bakery was quite brisk.
“Have you talked to Tinsley lately?” I asked.
“You already know the answer to that,” she said. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have asked.”
I smiled. “Cozy little place here.” The old metal ovens had probably been cranking since dawn. Three women sat in the small work area several feet behind the counter, kneading dough, dusting it in flour, then placing their creations on long baking sheets. “Come here often?” I asked.
“Couple of times a week,” Hunter said. “Their fresh blueberry muffins are killer.”
“But you have a cranberry muffin in front of you.”
“They only make blueberry twice a week, and you never know what those days are gonna be. I’ve complained a bunch, but it’s useless. Why would you make the most popular muffin in America only twice a week when most of the people who come here want that particular muffin? Go figure.”
“What did management say?”
“They allow their bakers to make the decision on what muffins they make each day.”
“Sounds pretty democratic.”
“Sounds like a way to lose money and customers.”
“But you keep coming.”
“And that’s what they count on. They know we’re a captive audience. So, they do whatever in the hell they want to do.”
I looked at the steady line of customers running from the cash registers to the door. Professors mixed with college students mixed with unsupervised kids from the elementary school loading up on sugar because their parents wouldn’t let them do it at home. The pastries in their display case were quickly disappearing, and the coffee machines were constantly humming.
A small group of kids took the table next to us. They were teasing each other and laughing and being loud like most kids are wont to do.
“Anything you care to share with me?” I said.
Hunter hiked her shoulders. “Like what?”
I smiled my most disarming smile. “You were pretty good,” I said with a wink. “But you made some mistakes.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Hunter said, taking a bite of the cranberry muffin and washing it down with a swallow of coffee.
“How about we start with Tinsley’s cell phone,” I said.
She stared back at me without expression.
“Tinsley actually came by your house that night,” I said. “You drove up to the shore, picked her up, and brought her down here. But for whatever reason she didn’t want to stay at your house. Whether you had an argument or not, I don’t know. But somehow, she left without her phone. Either she forgot it, or you swiped it.”
“You should try writing fiction,” she said with a smile. “You have a great imagination.”
“That’s what it took for me to figure it all out,” I said. “There were so many pieces I had, but I couldn’t make them fit. It was like they all belonged to a different puzzle.”
She looked down at her watch. “Don’t mean to be rude, but is this gonna take long? I have a lotta shit to do this morning.”
I shook my head. “Not long at all. My first stumbling block was her cell phone. I couldn’t understand why her cell phone popped up on the Hyde Park tower the same night she supposedly disappeared, the same night she was supposed to be spending the night at your house, the very same night you said she never showed up.”
“Like I told you before, she never showed up, and she didn’t call to say she wasn’t showing up. That wasn’t unusual for her.”
“So, she came all the way from the North Shore down here to Hyde Park and never let you know she was in the neighborhood, especially since she’s supposed to be sleeping over? Doesn’t make a lot of sense. Strange behavior for someone considered to be a best friend.”
“I don’t need a lecture from you on how best friends treat each other,” she said, folding her arms across her chest.
“Of course not, but that was the first sign that something wasn’t
